The Brown Man
The sea swayed gently in the breeze twenty or so feet below the pier. Behind him, the Brown Man could hear the shouts and laughter of children as he leaned against the rickety wooden railing. The air was thick with the smell of funnel cakes and tobacco.
"Welcome to Los Fucking Santos," he muttered to himself, turning his head to watch a biker race by. He had been working the city for nearly three months, and nothing seemed to surprise him anymore. He knew every dealer, every shady character, every whore, gambler, and addict in the city, he had contacts in every organization you could name, and he was right hand man to the King. Some fucking gig that is, he thought bitterly to himself. He used to be the pinch hitter, the guy who got called when no one else was qualified.
Working for the King used to mean something. The Brown Man thought back to the first job he pulled for the King, back when he had been plucked fresh from the streets of Liberty City. He remembered first meeting the King in person, along with Haywood and Jones, and being told what the score was.
"Cocaine," the King had told him, unceremoniously shoving a rifle into his hands, "and lots of it. If you do this right, you may have a future here."
That was an all-around shitty job. The risk was too great for the reward, they were sent halfway around Los Santos County just to pick up a few pounds of blow, but the King had neglected to tell them that they were lifting it from a separate dealer. That should have been the first sign that things were not all right in the kingdom. Then there was the problem with the jury. Someone, somewhere, had gotten hold of some pretty damning evidence; evidence that would have put the King away for a very long time. The King had his crew set out to kill the jury, so the case couldn't proceed.
"Kill 'em," the King had said, "kill 'em all, kill 'em quickly, and kill 'em now." He stood before the five of them, pouring some drink smelling of strong alcohol into a glass, some drink the Brown Man had never had a taste for. He didn't adhere to a lot of vices, despite his occupation, something his associates had lots of fun reminding him of. While they would venture into the city and wake up in some alleyway the next morning, cocaine under their noses and hangovers in their heads, he would sit at home, smoke a little weed and end up passing out at midnight.
They had done what he said and killed the jurors, of course. If you cross the King, the best course of action would be to put a bullet in your skull. God knows the King wouldn't be that merciful. After that whole fiasco, they had to lay low for a while, let the trail disappear. Just when he thought he was in the clear, the Brown Man got a call from the King himself. That was when the Christmas Raids became a reality.
The Christmas Raids were the first time any of them had moved meth, except for maybe Haywood, but it was an unspoken rule that nobody brought up his past. Everyone knew there was a reason he wore the skull, but no one wanted to know what that reason was. The product was a massive haul, worth more than anything they had ever done before, and no dealers or suppliers wanted to fuck with anything the King had going on in his company. The problem was the feds. They showed up almost instantly when the cargo was taken, and chased the crew halfway through Blaine County. There was so much product that one run wasn't enough, so they ended up making four separate deliveries. After all the stupid, dangerous shit the King had put his crew through, maybe now they would have made it far enough to call the whole thing quits, but that was when thing started to get really fucking dumb.
Now, instead of lifting property from some undeserving celebrity, or manufacturing some new drug to sell to the impressionable youth of the day, the King was having them dance for his entertainment. He was getting bored, and his crew were getting fed up.
"And now I'm right fucking here." The Brown Man grumbled softly, turning away from the soft shifting of the ocean and beginning to meander over to the Ferris wheel. He watched children run past him, pure joy on their faces, and their overweight parents waddling behind them, struggling to keep up. He saw a few couples sitting together outside food stalls, some of them still in the honeymoon phase, others well past it. Here and there was the occasional jogger, earbuds in, music blaring loud enough to hear from where he walked.
Hands in his pockets, he sauntered up to the ticket collector working the Ferris wheel.
"Tickets sir?" the pockmarked teenager said lazily, looking up from some stupid gossip magazine and holding out his hand.
"I don't have any tickets."
"No tickets, no ride." The kid said, annoyed, picking up his magazine and reading again.
"How about now?" the Brown Man said, opening up one side of his jacket and making the 9 mm resting there visible.
"Look, man," the attendant said quickly, backing into the Ferris wheel's deck, "I don't want no trouble, you can ride if you want, they just told me to say that shit! I can't even do anything if you get on the ride without paying! This walkie talkie is a freaking toy, man!"
"Thank you," the Brown Man said, stuffing his hand back into his pocket and taking a seat in one of the carts on the wheel. He sat there for a few minutes, waiting for the ride to start again. When it did, he swayed slightly in his chair and watched as the pier fell away from beneath him. He looked to the side of the car, and watched the sun setting on the horizon, painting the sky a vivid series of red, orange, pink, and blue. When he had gotten near the top of the wheel, he stood in his car and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He took a panoramic of the pier and the city near it, just like the King told him to, and then hesitated a fraction of a second before flipping the camera and taking a selfie. He stood alone, looking at his face suspended on the little screen, the last glimmers of sunlight casting strange reflections on his image.
"Fuck this shit, man." He said aloud when he had passed the top of the wheel. He sat back down and waited for the ride to end. When he stepped out of the car, he began to walk away when the attendant meekly called out after him, "Have a good day sir!"
The Brown Man paused for a second, before turning and responding, "You know, I think I did have a ticket." He reached into his jacket, pulled out the gun, levelled it at the attendant, and pulled the trigger. When the body hit the pier, he turned and walked away, not once breaking stride.
"Some fucking gig this is," he smirked to himself.